


Powers Of Seduction

by Britpacker



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Definitely Canon Divergent, M/M, Mild Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Milady over-estimated hers where d’Artagnan was concerned.  Her patron judged it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> It was never going to happen of course, but my mind goes down some distinctly odd paths sometimes and Milady’s confidence in her own attractions during episode 8 sent it off along this one. It would have made the series finale less predictable, after all! Something completely different from my usual Musketeers fare while I try to make my other fics work...

They stood before the dais with bowed heads; three where four should have stood, flanking their shattered captain. “And the woman – Madame de la Chapelle,” the King asked, reluctance creaking through every syllable. “Is she safe?”

“Shaken, Your Majesty, but recovering.” The Cardinal stepped in smoothly from the shadow of the throne to answer on the musketeers’ behalf. “Although perhaps now we should use her proper title – the Comtesse de la Fere.”

“His _wife_?” d’Artagnan erupted.

“More accurately, his widow,” Richelieu corrected with a pedantic relish that earned a disapproving look from Treville and a small, strangled sob from the Queen. “Oh; you didn’t know he was married, Captain?”

“Unhappily, it seems.”

“The Comtesse is a difficult woman, no doubt.” The understatement riled them all the more, he noted with grim satisfaction. “However, there can be no excuse for abduction and attempted murder. Had Athos survived this madness he must have faced court-martial. It’s probably best for the fabled Regiment of Musketeers that such a _public_ disgrace should be avoided."

“The regiment’s reputation can’t be soured by one man’s drunken actions, Cardinal!”

The moment the Queen’s ringing protest died, its echo fading like the sunlight beyond the palace walls, they all knew it had been a mistake. D’Artagnan drew in a sharp breath and jerked his head up for the first time, fixing the black-clad figure with a desperate look.

If he felt it, Richelieu found it easy to ignore. “Your Majesty’s _particular_ favour for the regiment is regrettably well known in Paris,” he said, far too smooth and sedate. Standing so close, his shoulder almost brushing the other man’s, the youngest of the group could feel his commanding officer tighten, Treville more attuned to the danger signs than anyone. 

The King shifted in his seat, peering up at the tall priest. “I don’t suppose you’d care to explain that remark, Cardinal?”

“I should sooner not, Sire.”

“And if I insist?”

Everyone must have known he would. King Louis never liked feeling someone knew more than he did, and now Richelieu was almost smirking, just the corner of his mouth beginning a mocking upward turn. He bowed his lofty grey head. “In that case… Monsieur Aramis, that chain around your neck. Will you show us?”

Air whistled between Porthos’ teeth. Slowly, his eyes flickering one way then the other as if he hoped to see a way to flee, Aramis withdrew the jewelled cross from within his jerkin and let it fall, glistening, against his chest.

What little colour he had drained from the King’s face and he rose slowly, fixated on the familiar jewel. “Have you stolen that from the Queen, you villain?” he hissed. 

She jerked up from the place at his side, spearing the impassive Cardinal with a venomous glare. “No! No he - I gave it to Monsieur Aramis, Sire. As a gift.”

“The first present I sent when you entered France to be my wife.” Utterly flat, Louis sank back into his chair, addressing her without deigning to turn his head and look. D’Artagnan shifted uncomfortably, wishing he could sink through the floor.

As far as Louis was concerned he suspected they all might have done. “You gave it to another man? _Why_?”

“I believed Monsieur Aramis had saved our lives, Sire, at terrible risk to his own. I only wanted to show my gratitude…”

“A purse of silver from the treasury would be a more traditional gift!” Tears made his eyes bulge, tricking unchecked down his face as Louis turned decisively away from his wife and toward his first minister. “The very first thing I gave her and it means so little that she would just - just _give_ it away! Or does this man mean so much? Is that it?”

“I intended no offence to Your Majesty.” When she tried to take his hands he shook her off as though she burned him, disgust contorting his usually bland features. 

“What, by giving away my bridal gift to another man? Well, why should I take offence at that eh, Treville? What do you say, shouldn’t I be _delighted_ by the favour my wife shows to your musketeers; or one of them, anyway!”

“Sire I’m sure Her Majesty’s gesture was made of the purest intent; and Aramis could hardly refuse such a kindness.”

“Indeed he could not,” Richelieu agreed immediately – and unhelpfully. “That would be most unchivalrous, wouldn’t it?”

Steam might have begun to seep from the captain’s ears. Keeping his eyes on the floor, d’Artagnan could feel his own blood beginning to boil, rage, shame and misery swirling like Atlantic tides in his belly. 

“Oh, Heaven forbid a Musketeer should be _unchivalrous_ , Cardinal.” Ice entered Louis’ high voice, giving it an edge the Gascon had never heard before; an edge that made the enfeebled monarch sound frighteningly like the terrifying minister at his shoulder. “Captain Treville, your men are confined to their garrison until further notice; the Cardinal’s guards will protect the palace. Come with me, Armand; you and I must consult on how to best repair the tarnished reputation of these vagabonds. Unless, Madame, you’d care to make your confession to the Cardinal now?”

“I thank Your Majesty, but this is not the time for confession.” With impressive dignity the Queen made her curtsy and left the room. Louis’ lip trembled alarmingly.

“I’m sure the Queen is speaking the truth, Sire,” Richelieu offered soothingly, taking a pace back to allow the shattered sovereign to precede him from the room. If he fired a look of pure triumph at the broken quartet left standing alone, d’Artagnan refused to let himself see it.

Slowly they trailed Treville down to the stables, even Porthos for once at a loss for a merry word. “How did he know?” the captain muttered as they mounted up and trotted for the gates. “I know they say he has eyes all over France, but even so…. How could he have _known_?”

“He met the Queen at the Spanish border,” Porthos volunteered gloomily. “He’d know the King’s first gifts better than anyone, since he handed them over! Maybe he recognised the chain? He could’ve seen it flying about in action.”

“I gave it to Ninon in the monastery courtyard,” Aramis remembered. “The place was swarming with Red Guards; then she gave it back to me in his room.”

Treville snorted. “You rate those ruffians higher than they deserve if you think they’d notice that! More likely the Queen’s ladies have gossiped, eh, d’Artagnan?”

“Er – probably, Captain.” Guilt burned his cheeks and stung his eyes but, gripped by their own pain, his companions noticed nothing. 

His silence on the slow ride home, he knew, would be attributed to grief. Athos more than any of them had taken a rash, hot-headed boy under his wing, helped mould him into the musketeer he had so recently become, and now – now this. 

Milady de Winter. Madame de la Chapelle. The Comtesse de la Fere. Whatever the witch called herself, whomever’s _protection_ she might claim, he would have his revenge someday, d’Artagnan swore it. Mumbling an excuse he bolted from the stables to his bunk, pushing away Porthos’ consoling hand. Revenge on her would be easier after all than taking revenge against himself.

Tucking his hands behind his head he closed his heavy, reddened eyes, dragged back in his mind to the day everything started to change. He could blame Milady; he could blame Labarge; he could blame the Cardinal himself, the master manipulator quietly pulling every string in Paris. 

None of it would take away the guilt he knew was his alone.


	2. Fish On A Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the worst of days, d'Artagnan remembers his first faltering steps on a very slippery slope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, the rating has changed; things are getting a lot steamier than I anticipated (I hope!). This is a short explanatory chapter before the really naughty stuff kicks off. Includes considerable spoilers for episode 8 "The Challenge".

“As a citizen of France I demand justice!”

“You will demand NOTHING of me!”

The Cardinal’s voice rang around the spartan chamber and as he struggled against the man’s guards d’Artagnan made his fatal mistake. He looked up and straight into the piercing grey eyes of the most powerful man in France.

And stopped struggling.

Burning with anger, filled with fire and fury, those eyes possessed the power to freeze every muscle and sinew in his body leaving him helpless, limp as a child's doll in the grip of the Red Guards heaving him from their master’s presence. 

Cold. He’d always thought this man, the nemesis of the regiment, the malign power behind the throne that, so utterly, icily cold before but now – now all he could feel was the heat and the passion behind those smouldering eyes: an intensity so fierce that just being in the same room as it could scorch the soul.

At the last instant before he was tossed out like a sack of rotten cabbages Richelieu’s lips twitched and the spell snapped. Staggering away with the curses of the soldiers ringing in his ears d’Artagnan found himself being haunted by the smile; even more by the unexpected glimpse of humanity behind it. For the first time since reaching Paris it occurred to him that behind the legend of the Cardinal there was a man: and that man, Armand Jean du Plessis, possessed a charisma he had never experienced before.

He tried to fight it. The next time he was in the Cardinal’s presence, kneeling before the King as he was commissioned into the Regiment of Musketeers, he deliberately looked everywhere but up and into those crystalline silver eyes. 

It made no difference. They burned him just the same and when he rose, bowing his way back from the Royal presence he stumbled, rough ground and the concentration required to ignore the Cardinal combining to bring him to his knees. 

The King chuckled kindly, deigning to lean down and ruffle his hair. Aramis and Porthos had laughed at him for a week after, and Athos’s clumsy compassion had ensured the embarrassment of landing on his arse before the whole court lasted far longer than was strictly necessary. 

The Cardinal had stepped back, sweeping a long, contemptuous look from head to toe as he’d dusted the battleground’s mud from his jerkin. In that instant d’Artagnan felt utterly exposed. As if he were naked, and only Richelieu could see it.

The thought made his whole body tingle, his blood overheated for the rest of the day. That night he tested himself more severely than Labarge ever had, fighting to keep his hands away from his throbbing arousal late into his first night as a full member of the garrison.

His treacherous body reacted every time after that he remembered his sweetly inevitable eventual surrender, stumbling to the privies as dawn broke to snatch a guilty release, the Cardinal’s stern, hawkish face filling his vision as he shuddered to a shattering climax with a forbidden name on his tongue. 

He watched the man’s long, slender hands the next time they attended Mass with the King at Notre Dame; closed his eyes and succumbed to the melody of that rich, gravelled voice chanting the familiar liturgy, so lost that only Athos’s friendly fist in the ribs had brought him back to his duty at the appropriate moment.

His friends teased him mercilessly thereafter, presuming his frequent nocturnal disappearances from the barracks were to blame. The fact that they were closer to the truth than they guessed – long nights camped in the toilet block instead of lazy evenings in a mistress’s bed, but the final result was the same – only made him blush deeper.

Yet he could not break free. 

Everywhere he went, the Cardinal seemed to be there. Those eyes; that small, knowing smile, pursued him. Had he been able to escape the man, d’Artagnan assured himself, he would never have succumbed. 

But he could not; a King’s Musketeer must be in the presence of the King’s chief adviser daily, and each time they met he felt the spell grow stronger.

Absently he drifted hand downward, grazing pebbled nipples through the thin linen of his shirt and in the process sending a cascade of pleasant tingles through his nervous system. His penis twitched eagerly against the confines of his britches and despite the day’s events a grin tugged at the young Gascon’s full lips.

The Scarlet Eminence saw everything. It was stated as a fact on the streets of Paris. He had been a fool to think his reaction might pass those eyes unnoticed.


	3. The Angler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cardinal is a tease. D'Artagnan loves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more short chapter before it all starts really kicking off (I hope!).

He was a Musketeer. He owed everything to the regiment. And yet its greatest enemy filled his thoughts at every unoccupied moment. What was more, the Cardinal made it agonizingly clear that he knew it.

He was subtle for an achingly long time; guarded. A flick of the eyes from face to groin when they passed in the palace corridors; the murmured acknowledgement, always by name, that unmistakable, husky voice making music of the familiar syllables. The brush of that sweeping cloak against his side, always followed by an insincere “excuse me” in the melee outside the King’s audience chamber. 

Each time, he felt himself blush hotter. Each time, the Cardinal’s smug smile seemed to widen. He tried to ignore it; told himself it was all in his overheated imagination. Then, slowly, the pressure was increased.

On parade as Their Majesties welcomed the Duke of Ferrara he felt someone staring, burning eyes slowly stripping his bright, untarnished uniform away piece by tiny piece. His blood began to heat, its sluggish flow increasing on the way to his groin. His balls contracted, sharp and painful. 

D'Artagnan broke the rules. He turned his head.

The Cardinal’s mouth quirked up in a brief, knowing smile, his platinum gaze brilliant in the shadow cast by the throne. The young Gascon’s penis quivered appreciatively in recognition. There could be no doubt now, the man knew exactly what he was doing.

What effect he was having.

It wasn’t possible – even the Scarlet Eminence didn’t possess spies into soldiers’ souls – but d’Artagnan was half-convinced Richelieu knew the fantasies that tormented him in his bunk. And he certainly knew how to keep inspiring them.

*

“Back! Move back, make way!” While Treville bawled at the enthusiastic crush his men formed a chain, arms linked to hold the shouting, waving throng back and keep a path open for the royal party between the great west doors of the ancient Abbey of Saint Denis and their waiting carriage.

It wasn’t easy; d’Artagnan had never seen crowds so vast or so noisily good-humoured, and while the posy that struck the back of Aramis’s head was amusing he could feel Athos tensing at his side, pessimistically anticipating a deadlier gift from the depths of the throng. He dug in his heels, grunting with the effort of keeping the crush at bay as Louis swept by, regally acknowledging the hurrahs that rumbled from his loving subjects.

Close behind came the most exalted priest in France, swathed in scarlet, a rare, benign smile firmly fixed in place as he repeatedly blessed the cheering throng. D’Artagnan felt himself being rocked forward by the press of people, the muscles of his arms and thighs beginning to burn.

The tang of incense and candle smoke teased his nostrils as the Cardinal’s long, fluid strides brought him level with their detachment. D’Artagnan sucked in a breath, inched his feet wider apart and willed himself to stare straight ahead, as if the man were invisible.

His iron resolve corroded the moment a hand adorned with a large and distinctive ring brushed him from one sharp hipbone, down across the belly to linger on his inner thigh. 

D’Artagnan couldn’t stop the gasp that was ripped from his throat, or the giddy rush of sensation the slight contact sent through weathered leather into all-too-susceptible flesh and bone. The fingers were there for a fleeting moment, their flex concealed by the billowing sweep of a plush ruby brocade sleeve, yet he felt the pressure of them burn like a branding iron long after the procession had moved by.

“Oi, you not coming for dinner or something?” 

Porthos’ blithe obliviousness had never been more welcome, though the burlier man’s meaty clout to the shoulder sent him sprawling onto his nose to the hilarity of an over-excited crowd. Eager hands thrust out to drag the blushing Gascon upright and over the stooping figures of his rescuers he saw his tormentor’s lofty head turn, the steely curls and crimson skull cap unmistakable at any distance.

The Cardinal seemed to hesitate for a moment. Time stopped.

He smiled.

“Come on, before we get trampled by these bloody peasants!” Porthos’ good-natured boom earned a round of equally humorous jeering. Meekly d’Artagnan allowed himself to be dragged along, hanging his head lest anyone see his burning cheeks.

Embarrassment, they’d assume, but what heated his face boiled even hotter in his loins. Not merely another man – sin enough in itself, some would say – but a priest, the highest in the land, had caressed him. Secretly perhaps, but in public, in the footsteps of the King and Queen, and straight from the celebration of the Mass itself.

D’Artagnan bit his bottom lips so hard he tasted blood spurting, hot and coppery against his tongue. There was no longer any doubt he was being toyed with; or that he revelled in it. Helpless against the excitement that coursed through his bloodstream, he could only wait for his tormentor to make his decisive move.


	4. Reeled In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good fisherman knows when to haul in the line, and Cardinal Richelieu is an expert fisher of souls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herein starts the sex. It'll be pretty much continual, with small breaks for plot, from now on!

It happened at last in the palace gardens. The King and Queen hosting an elaborate afternoon reception for the ambassadors of Venice, a full Musketeer escort on parade and all the great men of the state in solemn attendance while the women fluttered like gaudy, jewelled butterflies through the flowerbeds. Laughter tinkled through the trees, the fountains played and with every hour that passed d’Artagnan could feel his irritation mounting. 

Parade. Standing guard. Was this really the life of a soldier?

A glance around showed him the majority if the honoured guests slumped around the tables in various states of satiation, stoically watched by a dozen of his fellow musketeers. Nobody was looking at him.

Stealthily he eased his way around the perimeter of the lawn until he came to an invitingly cool copse of trees at the southern edge. Twigs cracked underfoot as he backed through low-hanging branches, instantly refreshed by escape from the blazing sun. He let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, turning on his heel to move deeper under the canopy’s cover.

From the corner of his eye he spied a flash of brilliant red, livid as a giant bloodstain across the mossy ground and his heart made a sickening lurch up to his throat. “Your Eminence!” he blurted, lunging to his left.

“Concern for me, Musketeer? You realise you could be dismissed from the regiment for that?”

The voice, low, mocking and irresistibly smoky, emerged from the trees behind him and he whipped around to face it, one hand going instinctively to his sword hilt. Leaning against a sturdy oak, glints of silver flaring through his dark grey hair where sunlight sliced in dappling shards between the summer leaves, Cardinal Richelieu unleashed a small, almost mischievous grin.

He had never looked more fragile; more unbearably human. And yet as he approached with the wariness of a hunter closing in on a wounded bear the exposed skin of d’Artagnan’s forearms began to prickle with an intoxicating mix of bone-deep trepidation and illicit glee. Shorn of his swathing robes, only the large gold cross he was never without to break the sobriety of black breeches and a flimsy, almost translucent black shirt unlaced at the neck, Richelieu contrived to appear somehow frailer and more imposing; more human, yet strangely more intimidating.

He watched enthralled as the older man stretched, languorous and graceful in easing himself away from the tree’s support. “No glib reply either, your friends have work to do with you,” Richelieu drawled, circling him like a wolf taunting its prey into ill-considered flight. To his guilty delight d’Artagnan discovered he had no desire to oblige. 

Alone with the most fascinating man in Paris, the low hum of noise from civilisation muted by luxuriant foliage, he felt different – liberated from his life as the King’s Musketeer, released to give full rein to the sensations that coursed unchecked throughout his body. “So they tell me,” he tried, the words coming from far away, barely touching the back of his much-too-dry throat. Richelieu lifted a steely brow, inching a little closer.

With a defiant lift of the chin, d’Artagnan held his ground. The Cardinal chuckled.

“So, you’re becoming bolder are you, Gascon?” he purred, treating his willing victim to another of those long, undressing looks that set d’Artagnan’s flesh on fire and caused a delicious tightening in his loins. He swivelled on his heels, feeling them bite deep into damp, yielding earth, keeping his eyes on the other man while he glided around the glade.

He told himself he was poised; ready to react. He refused to admit he was helpless, trapped more by his own unlawful desires than the menacing presence of Paris’ most dangerous beast. “Confess!”

Richelieu took a step forward. D’Artagan matched it with one back. “Confess,” the priest repeated, softer this time, more enticing. Another step and the younger man was back up hard against a broad oak, hands balled at his side, immobilized as the last distance between them was closed. “Confess.”

As surely as the lean, dark form blotted out the shafts of sunlight through the trees around them, the first brush of moustache against top lip cut out all the rational impulses in d’Artagnan’s brain. Any thought of flight dissolved and he sighed, his lips parting at the first delicate brush of a tongue between them. 

When his knees would have buckled Richelieu’s strong hands saved him, one at the hip, the other tangling painfully in his thick black hair. Something solid pushed between his legs and he whimpered, instinct taking over, making him grind himself hard against it. The Cardinal’s dark, smoky chuckle rolled around his mouth.

The hand on his hip moved to grip d’Artagnan’s backside, long, strong fingers curled with bruising force into the flesh. Humping the older man’s thigh, the granite ridge of his erection straining against the softened leather of his breeches, he felt the slight sting as an additional stimulus, no less erotic than the gentler tickle of an acid-tipped tongue against the sensitive roof of his mouth. When Richelieu drew back with a greedy inhalation that made the air around his cheek dance, he felt lost. Bereft.

“Hush, boy.” Until the other man spoke, low and gravelly, the sound pooling in his loins, d’Artaganan didn’t realise his disappointment had been vocalised. The Cardinal bestowed another quick, almost chaste kiss, shifting his hands to guide the younger man more fully against him, thrusting up from the hip to increase sensation’s electrifying jolt. His head lolling back d’Artagnan mewled, made wanton by the pleasure surging through his body.

Through half-closed eyes he watched the tight, feral smile across his tormentor’s face widen, the narrow, hawk-like features growing softer as his vision blurred and the pressure in his balls reached its critical point. “Y- You- Your,” he whimpered, clawing frantically at Richelieu’s shoulders.

“Say it.” The Cardinal shuddered, a lightning bolt of excitement ripping from one man into the other. “ _Say it!_ ”

D’Artagnan sucked in a shaky breath, squeezed his eyes tight shut and blurted the title, each syllable rising an octave as the climax crashed down on him. “Your Eminence!”

For several moments he hung suspended, only the strength of the hands on his arse preventing his liquefied limbs from giving way. At length however the Cardinal sighed and loosed his grip, leaving the younger man to slither, slow and smooth as a satin undergarment, into a puddle on the floor between his feet.

The movement roused d’Artagnan from his torpor and his eyes fluttered open, dead level with an enticing bulge of male flesh that strained provocatively against thick black cloth. Immediately he was wide awake.

Taking shameless advantage of Richelieu’s momentarily lowered guard he tipped forward to nuzzle, feeling the jump of his own heart rate in time with its instant and enthusiastic twitch.

A hand tugged through his hair, a half-hearted attempt to pull him away he chose to ignore in favour of attacking the lacing that secured the priest’s breeches with his teeth. “There’s no need,” Richelieu murmured even while his hips jerked, belying the words. Eagerly uncovering his treasure, d’Artagnan flicked up a mischievous smile.

“Oh, I think there is, Your Eminence,” he flirted, sharing the shimmer of sacrilegious pleasure that crossed the older man’s flushed face while pretending he didn’t need to do this more than he needed to take his next breath. Deftly he palmed the swollen head of the exposed erection, repeating the motion immediately, fascinated by the velvety heat of another man’s cock against his sweaty palm. The Cardinal bit down hard on his bottom lip, just repressing a gasp.

Encouraged, d’Artagnan dipped his head and fluttered his tongue, dancing it in imitation of Milady’s against himself those many months ago. The Cardinal’s reaction was instantaneous. Violent.

Hot, slick flesh surged against d'Artagnan’s open mouth as he thrust, the smallest strangled moan escaping. Delighted, he wrapped his lips around the broad head and sucked, instinctively pressing both palms against his lover’s sharp hipbones to stay his restive movement. 

Sharp salt tasted on his tongue and he dug his knees into the soft ground for greater purchase, setting about his self-appointed task with gleeful determination. Once, twice he felt himself gag, his lungs burning for want of air while his mouth, teeth and tongue scratching and swiping, explored the Cardinal’s heavy genitals.

His own began to harden and heat, arousal rising anew at the sight, sound and feel of all his fantasies coming together at once. Richelieu shifted restlessly against the stout support of the tree, his head threshing, shallow breaths coming fast with pleasure’s rise and swirl. Careful, the musketeer withdrew until he could wrap the whole of one hand around the base of the priest’s cock, pumping hard and fast.

If he liked it, he assumed any man must. When Richelieu emitted a deep, guttural groan and a flood of hot, salty slime began to course over his tongue and into his throat, d’Artagnan knew his guess had been right.

He sucked noisily until the elder man’s convulsions gentled, cradling the softening length of his penis to cushion the descent back from pleasure’s exalted place until long silver lashes began to flutter over platinum eyes misted with an uncharacteristic lethargy. “I knew you had talent, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” Richelieu drawled, raising the kneeling soldier’s chin. “Now, run to the nearest fountain and wash your face before your captain sees you.”

He should, he reflected as he pressed a hasty kiss to the gleaming enamel of the Episcopal ring, feel strong – even invincible, having had the not-so-secret power behind the throne weak beneath his touch. He ought to feel fulfilled, all his passionate daydreams dissolved by the potent reality of having known the Cardinal’s scratchy, demanding kiss.

Yet d’Artagnan did not.

He felt small. Feeble. Like a peasant summoned before the lord of the manor. He could feel his face begin to flame, embarrassment washing away the inconvenient stab of desire when Richelieu’s palm rested on his crown in playful benediction. “Forgive me Father,” he mumbled, dashing away the sticky residue of the other man’s climax from his chin. 

Richelieu inclined his dark grey head, sparks of silver dancing through the tousled curls where sunlight struck. “Always, my son,” he answered, just loud enough for the words to rebound through the glade. “Always.”


	5. King's Messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hoped their encounter in the woods would put a stop to his obsession. D’Artagnan is about to be disappointed. Sort of.

He found excuses to avoid the palace in its quieter moments; buried himself in the crowd, never more thankful for the brawny bulk of Porthos to hide behind when every musketeer must be in attendance on his king. His anonymity could never be total – those pale, penetrating eyes, twinkling like morning stars, rested on him now and then – but it seemed the Cardinal was content to taunt from a distance, never presuming on intimacy shared to approach.

D’Artagnan was grateful. Most of the time.

His friends knew something was wrong: he caught Athos’s long, speculative looks, the whispered half-exchanges between Aramis and Porthos that always stopped abruptly when he moved a step too near. He suspected them of standing guard at night, one man then the next taking a turn to register his stealthy escape from the barracks. 

They never followed; some things at least were sacrosanct among the Musketeer brotherhood. And ridiculously, their curiosity allowed him more time curled up in the privy or the hayloft, pleasuring himself to the memory of a low, satin-and-smoke voice while they imagined him lounging in the comfort of some harlot’s lair. 

One evening he tried to envisage the Cardinal bringing himself to release with the name of a Gascon farm boy on his tongue but his imagination failed and his burgeoning arousal fell disappointingly flat. For one night at least his comrades need not be disturbed by his furtive escape.

They became really concerned – and he didn’t blame them – the day he volunteered to stand garrison duty while they escorted the Venetians beyond Paris. “ _I_ get it,” Porthos bellowed, finally breaking a three-minute silence, the longest d’Artagnan had experienced in their company. “He’s made up with Constance and not told us, the sneaky bastard! Don’t wanna be sleeping in the country tonight, I bet!”

Her name no longer stung his ear but a leaden sensation settled in the pit of his stomach all the same. “I’ve not seen her in weeks,” d’Artagnan muttered, avoiding the knowing looks over his lowered head. Aramis jabbed playfully at his shoulder.

“Of course you haven’t; too busy with a new lady, eh?” he joked.

“Hey, you’re the one with the reputation, not me!”

They were still laughing, another man the subject of communal teasing, when they clattered from the stable block. Only d’Artagnan was left with a cold weight in his guts and a sweat to match across his brow. 

This couldn’t go on.

*

“Treville! Captain Treville, send for the Cardinal AT ONCE, I must have his counsel immediately! This is an outrage! I won’t have it! Where is Armand, he’ll know how to answer this – this Spanish insolence!”

The King’s voice echoed shrilly through the palace halls, cut through by the teary edge that made d’Artagnan, still inexperienced enough for reverence, cringe. Crushing the letters from Madrid between his hands Louis scurried from one large open window to the next and back, dark hair whipping into his eyes as he raved against the iniquity of his brother-in-law’s diplomatic manoeuvring. “Am I not the Most Christian King of France? Was my ancestor not a saint? Who is this Habsburg to intrigue with the Holy Father against me?”

“D’Artagnan, find the Cardinal.” Wringing his weathered hands Treville was as much out of his depth in matters of high policy as the sovereign himself, and unlike Louis he was brave enough to admit it. “He’s at the palace….”

“Of course he is, where else would one expect my first minister to be?” Irritated, Louis wagged a finger as if to shoo a reluctant dog on its way. “He had papers to attend in his own chambers – try there first, but if he should be at prayer don’t interrupt him. Man’s affairs can wait; God’s do not.”

The phrase, he gathered, was the Cardinal’s; the impatience entirely the King’s and he needed none of Treville’s indecorous flapping to hurry him on his way. “The Cardinal has his agents in Rome, Sire,” he heard the captain say soothingly before their master cut him off like a querulous old woman. Embarrassed on both men’s behalf d’Artagnan took to his heels and fled, leaving the extravagant Baroque Royal Apartments for an older, deliberately austere suite of rooms protected by two members of the Cardinal’s Red Guard.

“King’s business,” he stated brusquely when they moved to challenge him before bare oak doors at the end of a narrow whitewashed corridor. “His Majesty wants to see the Cardinal at his earliest convenience, _if_ it’s not too much trouble for you to tell him.”

“Cardinal’s in his oratory; you’d best wait for him, he don’t like to be disturbed.” The younger guard gave him and up-and-down look that chilled the marrow but to d’Artagnan’s relief the more senior waved him through without a second glance. “Tell him yourself!”

The Cardinal’s study was spacious, but as spare and sober as the man himself: its low carved ceiling unpainted, and only a pair of conventional works – the Madonna with Child and a particularly gory Crucifixion – to break the chill of bare walls. Severe high-backed dark oak chairs stood on either side of a neatly ordered desk, the only touch of informality being offered by a bowl of fruit fresh from the palace Orangery and a flask, unopened, of wine. Two other chairs and an unpadded bench stood against the side wall but after a single pace toward them the Gascon checked himself. Sitting in this room, without the invitation of its master, would be impertinent. Even blasphemous.

Instead he stood parade-ground stiff, hands clasped behind his back and eyes fixed on the stone floor. Despite – perhaps because of – the lack of distraction, he was completely surprised by the whisper of silk on stone and the squeak of worn leather when the Cardinal, his sweeping black robe trailing around his feet passed through an unprepossessing door on the chamber’s right and stopped dead at the sight of his unexpected guest.

“Into the lion’s den, I see,” he drawled, the subtlest glint of amusement lighting his eyes at d’Artagnan’s guilty start. “I assume I’m summoned to the King?”

“At Your Eminence’s earliest convenience.” The title was unnecessary. The thrill it sent from tongue to groin, d’Artagnan realised too late, was gloriously inevitable.

By the twitch of a muscle in the Cardinal’s jaw he gathered he wasn’t the only one affected and his heart rate surged. “I was instructed not to disturb your prayers,” he added vaguely.

He wanted – needed - to look away. To focus anywhere but those polished steel eyes, and yet their spell was too strong. Mesmerised he waited for the older man’s approach, acutely aware of the tight sensation across his chest and the faint, inexorable rise of every fine hair down his body. “The courtesy is appreciated,” Richelieu drawled, ghosting a blunt fingertip down the curve of his cheek. D’Artagnan’s breath caught audibly in the back of his throat. 

“So, your conscience isn’t quite as tender as your bashfulness would imply.” His failure to withdraw was a silent invitation no man of Richelieu’s acuity could miss. Lightly he skimmed the younger man’s stubbled chin, tracing a tantalising line down to his collar, fiery sparks igniting beneath d’Artagnan’s skin. “And lead us not into temptation,” he quoted softly, closing the words in with a slow, sensual kiss.

The first scratch of beard against his jaw dissolved all d’Artagnan’s resistance and his arms came up, wrapping around his captor’s neck while his treacherous body surged against that unyielding strength. Richelieu’s chuckle rolled like cold water over his tongue.

“So eager, my toy soldier?” he murmured, though the ferocity with which he yanked open d’Artagnan’s jerkin implied at least an equal degree of enthusiasm. From that moment it was all grasping hands and clashing fingers, the zipping tear of cloth and the desperate, ragged gulp for air between kisses that grew harder, sloppier and messier from one into the next.

“Not here.” His skull cap askew, coat hanging open and shirt untucked, the Cardinal dragged himself back just long enough for d’Artagnan to discover that his jerkin, shirt and breeches all gaped open, ample proof of the other man’s greater dexterity. “This way.”

The discreet door behind his desk might have been the flaming Gates of Hell and d’Artagnan would have followed but Richelieu was leaving nothing to chance, dragging his partner up against himself before backing toward it, hips grinding hard against the younger man’s. 

The encouragement was swiftly proven unnecessary. Frantic, d’Artagnan wrenched at the fine black shirt until it came apart in his hands, desperate for the friction of skin on naked skin. Only when he tried to lift the heavy gold cross from around his neck did the Cardinal move to stop him.

“Leave it.”

With his hand pressed down over ridged metal and smooth, pale flesh there was nothing for d’Artagnan to do but nod, savouring a redoubled rush of impious anticipation. “As Your Eminence pleases,” he breathed, captivated by the immediate darkening of stormy-sky eyes. Richelieu touched his crown in ironic benediction. 

As abruptly as it had begun, the lull ended. Mouths met, teeth scraping in delirious fury while hands grappled and recalcitrant cloth was torn away. The world tilted alarmingly for a moment, then the plush cushions of a sturdy oak chaise gave way beneath his back. 

D’Artagnan’s appreciative moan turned into a squeak as the full weight of his partner came down on top of him. He arched up, inviting the pressure. Demanding more.

Cold metal where the cross bit into his torso; fiery heat below when Richelieu shifted, a subtle move that brought their swollen cocks into alignment for the first, heart-stopping time. D’Artagnan was a mass of conflicting sensations, clashing together to amplify each other. His world was the movement of a lithe, strong body against his own; the feathery caress of breath warm and damp against his ear; the cascading pleasure of one man’s climax as the trigger for another’s. 

He had no idea of the words that tumbled from his lips; barely heard the Cardinal’s incoherent groan. Conscious only of himself d’Artagnan rocked his hips on and on, draining the last dregs of ecstasy until pleasure gave seamless way to velvet oblivion. 

How long he lay there he never knew, reality returning with the creak of bone and the exhalation of breath when the Cardinal hauled himself upright, pausing to grin back over his shoulder before padding, unabashedly nude, through another door. Cold seeped insidiously into d’Artagnan’s molten bones despite a fierce full-body blush and he scrambled up, already fumbling for his scattered clothes.

“Here.” Enviably nonchalant, Richelieu threw a damp cloth at him from the door, a plain silver washbowl precariously balanced in the crook of his arm. Businesslike, he wiped the stickiness from his belly and chest, careful only when tending the smeared symbol of his rank. “You’d better not smell _odd_ in the presence of your comrades; it wouldn’t do to arouse their clodhopping suspicions.”

Surreal though the moment was, d’Artagnan felt himself relax beneath the unexpected teasing. “Oh, they’re convinced I have a mistress hidden somewhere,” he grinned. Richelieu arched a quizzical brow.

“Judging by their own standards?” he offered silkily, handing the younger man his undergarment with the discreet competence of a professional valet. D’Artagnan snickered.

“Most likely,” he agreed, spellbound by the compact grace with which the priest moved, long limbs under impeccable control while his own, shorter and more muscular, still stuttered, disjointed impulses unleashed by an unwilling brain. “Aramis especially.”

“Yes, it seems even the Comtesse de Larroque’s disdain for our sex is overcome in his presence.” Something harsh twisted his lean features for a moment before the Cardinal regained his usual air of disdainful indifference. “What was that token she handed him in at the monastery, did you see it?”

“Oh, that!” The trap yawned before him and without a second glance d’Artagnan tumbled in. “She was returning what was his! A token from some admirer he’d given her for luck, Porthos told me.”

“Indeed? The cross she wore at her trial, perhaps?” The barest flaring of the nostrils; a fleeting clench of the hands before, fully dressed, the Cardinal turned his most disarming smile on the unsuspecting Gascon. D’Artagnan nodded.

“He can’t much care for the lady since he was so willing to give it away,” he commented, falling into step when his host made a sweeping heel-turn toward the study. Unseen by him, Richelieu’s thin lips tightened into a dangerous scowl.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed, pausing to pull a small square of card from his desk. “Take this.”

D’Artagnan received it as if he expected it to bite him. “What is it?”

“Access.” Politely ignoring his start, Richelieu retrieved his skull cap and settled it, smoothing the curls around with the deliberate care of a vain girl. “Here. At my residence. Show it to my guards and you’ll be brought directly to me, without question. I’d recommend coming cloaked, though. If word were to spread that I had a King’s Musketeer among my creatures…”

The requisite chuckle scraped painfully at the back of his throat, a legion of cold spiders unleashed to crawl over d’Artagnan’s shrivelled flesh. His innards felt hollow, as if his organs had been scraped away. Was that what he’d become?

Stunned into dumb obedience he followed the Cardinal all the way to the Royal presence, deaf to the undignified shrieks of outrage still resounding around the palace halls. It took the expression of raw relief on Treville’s face, so different from his usual reaction to the sight of his old rival, to snap him back from his torpor.

Barely aware of his surroundings he wrapped his hand around the card in his pocket, squeezing it as if he could crush the words from the page. He would burn it back at barracks – toss it into the flames and imagine its death agonies were his tormentor’s in the fires of Hell. He would not – ever – be mistaken for a creature of the Cardinal’s!


	6. Cardinal's Creature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He isn't, and never will be. Except physically, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter started to get incredibly long, so I've chopped it at a (hopefully) sensible point in the interest of getting it posted at all. I'm intending to get the next part up more quickly - honest!

His resolve held until the last moment. Alone before a blazing fire late at night he wrenched the scrap from his coat and crushed it, his hand raised to hurl it into the heart of the flames.

The mind was willing, but the flesh recoiled. His fingers stiffened as if seized by frostbite. The Cardinal’s face swam in the fire, contorted with ecstasy as it had been, for him, those few brief hours ago.

D’Artagnan swore violently. The card, crumpled but intact, went back into his pocket. 

“It doesn’t mean I’m coming though,” he growled to the empty hearth.

Eight days later, a floppy hat pulled low over his face and a dull brown woollen cloak protecting him from the rain he presented his credentials at the Cardinal’s Palace, heart lodged tightly in the back of his throat. Whether his instant admission was a relief or a disappointment he was still trying to fathom when, having been hustled across a spacious courtyard, he was guided up a broad flight of stairs and thrust through a grand pair of double doors, straight into the priest’s formidable presence.

Stiffening his shoulders d’Artagnan threw off his disguise, braced for fiery anger or a cold dismissal; the Cardinal de Richelieu was hardly accustomed to waiting and he wasn’t fool enough to believe his charms so potent the real ruler of France might have missed him. He sucked in a breath and clasped his hands, desperately reminding himself why he didn’t care.

The Cardinal, seated composedly at his desk with quill in hand, ignored him.

D’Artagnan cleared his throat. Shuffled closer, peering at the bowed head, the intent set of the lean features. “Your Eminence?” he tried.

Richelieu’s lips twitched. “One moment, my son,” he murmured, dipping the pen once more to add a flourishing signature at the foot of his page before rising, candlelight shooting fiery sparks from the large jewels on his clasped hands. He cocked his head, waiting until the thud of retreating footsteps was stilled before relaxing into a smile d’Artagnan had never seen before.

Warm. Boyish. Irresistible. 

In that instant he stopped fighting himself. Instead he sank to his knees, seizing one long, fine-boned hand and scattering fervent kisses everywhere but the place other lips would reverently touch. “I wanted to burn your card,” he muttered, aware of the tingles running into his brain from the priest’s other hand, slim digits splayed as they combed through his thick black hair. “I swore I wouldn’t come every time you snapped your fingers.”

“I must try that.” A nail scraped across his nape unleashing a cascade of shivers from the delicate spot at the hairline. “Another time, perhaps.”

D’Artagnan felt himself being lifted, blissfully boneless in the confident hands of France’s most practised manipulator, his lips already parted in expectation of the man’s possessive kiss. Honeyed languor flooded him, disconnecting his reason and leaving him liquid, receptive to exactly the arrogant domination he’d spent so many hours trying to forget. As his clothes dissolved beneath the Cardinal’s capable hands and his own, so much less controlled, scrabbled to return the favour he could only marvel at the reckless resilience that had kept him operating without this masterful lover’s touch for so long.

Without the words being said, both men knew he wouldn’t torment himself in vain again.

*

It became routine from that night; the same time each week he slipped from the barracks, retrieving his paltry disguise and scuttling through the darkened city with a churning mixture of anticipation and dread in his belly. What he feared more - being welcomed or ignominiously turned away – d’Artagnan never was sure.

He could have sketched the Cardinal’s hands, so exactly did he know the location of every individual callus that scraped tantalisingly against his cock. He knew a moment prouder even than his commissioning the first time his ferociously controlled lover cried out his name, proof that diligent practise had perfected his natural talent for oral pleasure. Against the wall; on the desk, papers, candlesticks and inkpots swept to the floor; perched on a broad window seat overlooking the main courtyard with the Red Guards patrolling in ignorance below. It seemed they made love everywhere possible before Richelieu finally consented to guide his guest to bed.

Not that d’Artagnan cared. Each time the older man smiled at him, warmth softening the grim set of his hawkish features, daylight’s nagging doubts dissolved like an autumn morning's mist. 

He grew bolder, initiating eye contact in the palace halls and hugging himself inside when he won an amused dip of silver lashes. Nothing anyone else would notice, it was a tiny triumph for him, always just enough to bolster the self-respect that fell away beneath the other man's touch. 

On the one occasion affairs of state kept the Cardinal occupied during their appointed hour he fretted like a suitor rebuffed, jealous of another’s prior claim to his sweetheart's attention. The following morning, reflecting from the numbness of a sleepless night, he despised himself all over again.

The next time, as if to compensate for the disappointment, Richelieu swept into his private chambers direct from Mass, still robed in the sombre black cassock with its rust-red trim he habitually wore in the privacy of the Royal chapels. As d’Artagnan sank to his knees like a penitent in search of absolution he extended his hand with fingers spread, inviting a rain of ardent kisses which entirely missed their ostensible target. “Undress me,” he commanded.

D’Artagnan’s heart lurched. His vision blurred. “Wha – what?” he stuttered.

The Cardinal butted the edge of his desk with one sharp hipbone. “Undress me,” he repeated simply. 

What followed was the most erotic experience of d’Artagnan’s life. The vestments fell apart at his determined assault, the familiar layer beneath dissolving unnoticed beneath his sweaty palms. While their hands clashed, fingers scrabbling on overheated cocks until neither man knew whether he pumped his own or his companion’s, he chanted the familiar words of the Confessional, more devout in sin than he’d ever been in repentance. _Forgive me Father, for I have sinned_. 

Afterwards he knelt in the Cardinal’s chapel with sweat and semen still sticky against his skin, the priest remote again in his clerical splendour, deft and outwardly untroubled by conscience as he attended the room’s myriad candles. Even as he prayed d’Artagnan felt his concentration waver, the fine hairs at his nape prickling with excitement whenever the other man moved too near, the temptation concealed beneath the robes almost too great to bear. He had to hobble all the way back to barracks, aroused beyond reason by a vivid mental image of Richelieu draped, naked and glistening in the candle light, across the altar itself.

*

Increasingly as time passed he lived that way, veering between guilty exultation and morose self-disgust, dependant entirely on whether he saw the Cardinal, won a glance or was ignored. His friends stopped asking questions – that was one good thing – but he knew his erratic behaviour alarmed them. Even Treville, loath to intervene in the personal affairs of his men – with good reason, d’Artagnan assumed, given the teasing directed Aramis’s way – drew him discreetly aside during a boisterous training session.

“Are you all right, d’Artagnan? You seem… different lately.”

“I’m fine, Captain.”

“Not upset about anything? No money troubles?”

“Not since my commission.” Cold settled at the base of his spine as a leathery palm curled comradely around his shoulder. “Really Captain, I’m fine.”

“So they’re right – it’s woman trouble.” The creases around his blue eyes deepening, Treville gave him a fatherly squeeze. “Well, I’m hardly the man to offer advice, but if you ever need to talk…”

“Thanks.” What he really needed to do, d’Artagnan considered, was vomit. Their compassion – their affection – was his anchor and he was betraying them all.

The next night, as usual, he slipped through the shadows with his stomach in knots and his balls already tight, stray shimmers of expectant delight cascading through his system. 

It was wrong. He didn’t love the man - God forbid! But he needed that burning kiss, those talented hands on his flesh, like a drunken sot needed his glass refilled. The thought of not knowing that urgent gratification again… it was unbearable.

Acknowledgement of his weakness made him surly in the presence of its cause; which in turn won him a sharp glance that shrivelled his guts. If it had the same effect on his stirring erection, d’Artagnan considered gloomily, all his troubles would be over.

Instead it stimulated him all the more, the glint of first minister he saw in his lover’s eyes. “If you’d sooner be somewhere else…” Richelieu drawled, not bothering to rise while the Gascon hovered at his salon door. D’Artagnan bit his lip. “After all you’re a handsome lad; I dare say Milady de Winter would make space in her bed for you again. Or Bonacieux’s wife, Constance, is that her name? Her husband told me about your little _liaison_. Really, I thought you’d have more sense than to tumble your landlord’s wife!”

His mouth dried out. D’Artagnan clutched the aged wooden doorframe for support as the world tilted dangerously on its axis. “Bonacieux _knew?_ ” he croaked.

“Of course he did; and he reported to me.” His naïveté, he gathered, amused a man who had left such foolish sentiment at the nursery door. “Oh I don’t blame you – she’s a pretty thing, and Bonacieux’s a monumental bore. I have a mistress too, but I suppose you knew that.”

His head jerked sideways. “No,” d’Artagnan managed, immediately swamped by a whole new set of erotic images.

The Cardinal’s grey head nestled between a pair of satin thighs. Long locks of glittering female hair swirling across his alabaster chest, parting around pebbled nipples like fast-flowing rivulets on the stony bed of a stream. The Cardinal’s magnificent cock, thick, heavy and swollen as it disappeared between slippery feminine folds. 

He wet his lips. Rubbed a hand thoughtlessly across his glistening brow. The walls were closing in on him. He couldn’t move. 

Richelieu rose smoothly and offered his hand. D’Artagnan seized it, kissing the usual finger before he could think to stop himself. “She’s very beautiful,” the Cardinal said conversationally. “Young, but clever. And very… obliging.”

“I’m sure she is.” He was faintly relieved to feel no resentment, not through the onslaught of a dizzying erotic curiosity. “Does she call you what I do?”

“No.” His name, then. D’Artagnan knew it; had tried its taste on his tongue in the hayloft and found it bitter as wormwood. To make him _Armand_ was to make him human. His Eminence the Cardinal de Richelieu, was a distant being, not a mortal man. So long as he stayed that way, d’Artagnan’s heart and his genitalia could at least retain an acceptable distance.

“Do you want me to use you, d’Artagnan?” Oh he understood this man’s power over the King now, once so inexplicable. That coaxing tone; those hypnotic eyes; the near-supernatural ability to divine a man’s most secret thoughts. “Your yielding women aren’t enough now, am I right? You want to be taken, possessed by me, don’t you?”

“Yes.” There was something exhilarating – liberating – about saying it aloud; something that released the inhibitions and made his submission complete. D’Artagnan raised a pair of sparkling dark eyes, aware of the flush that crept deliciously up from his toes. “Take me like a whore, Your Eminence. I want…”


	7. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan hoists the white flag. He's not to know it but his timing is atrocious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for getting this done quickly! Real life has a nasty habit of fouling up my plans! It's been a while since I wrote M/M smut, too...

A finger rested over his parted lips, cool eyes beginning to blaze at the twirl of his tongue around its tip. “I know,” Richelieu growled, his natural pallor warmed with the sensual heat of stirring blood. Deliberately rough he yanked the younger man so close both felt the erotic bite of the cross through layers of sturdy fabric. “This way.”

Pleasure bubbled through his bloodstream but there was something important – something d’Artagnan had been intending to say for far too long. “I despise you,” he mumbled between kisses, both men staggering over the low threshold of the Cardinal’s bedchamber as if they’d never crossed it blind before. “You know that?”

“You’re a musketeer. It’s a requirement.” His balls received a sharp squeeze that made him dizzy. D’Artagnan jerked his hips, forcing himself deeper into Richelieu’s cupped hands. 

“You’re callous. Ruthless. Cold.”

“Am I, indeed?” The mouth working the side of his neck was altogether too warm, teeth, tongue and lips harmonising to leave a mark on vulnerable flesh that would be visible for days, little that d’Artagnan cared while sharp pleasure bloomed in his bloodstream. He sucked in a breath, focussed on the words he needed to get out. Knowing if he didn’t now, they would never be said at all.

“You’ll do anything - use anyone - to get your own way.”

“Ah, but you yearn to be used, my Gascon.” His eyes were closed but his fingertips saw the endless buttons of the Cardinal’s jerkin well enough and in moments d’Artagnan had them undone, his palms pressed flat against the wall of the older man’s chest. Richelieu wrenched the cross from his neck, almost hurling it to the floor.

“Bastard!”

“My parents’ marriage was quite valid I assure you.” Amusement curled through the smoky syllables. D’Artagnan snickered, the sound shooting up several octaves when a rough pinch was applied to an exposed nipple.

“Bastard,” he repeated, almost tenderly. Richelieu chuckled.

“Whore,” he countered, stopping the argument with a kiss.

His tactical brain never shut down; a fact d’Artagnan acknowledged by melting completely into the Cardinal’s arms, grinding himself brazenly against the taller man’s length. “ _My_ whore,” Richelieu concluded breathlessly when they collapsed in a nude tangle onto his large canopied bed.

“Yes!” A long hand wrapped itself around his erection. D’Artagnan’s eyes rolled, his surroundings going gloriously hazy. His awareness narrowed to the places where they joined; to the leathery scrape of callused fingers and the ticklishness of a beard against his throat. “Please – please…”

“On your knees, boy.” Deftly the Cardinal manipulated his compliant partner into position, arse in the air while the crimson velvet coverlet tickled his nostrils. “Perfect.”

The compliment was followed by a feathery kiss to his nape that made d’Artagnan shiver, nullifying the tension he felt creeping from his toes in this new, exposed position. “Your Eminence,” he breathed, clinging to the title like a toddler to his mother’s skirts, a reassuring familiarity in an alien world. Richelieu rubbed a comforting hand down his spine, lingering at its base before one finger ventured southward to slide into his crack.

“Do you trust me, musketeer?” he murmured.

The finger delved deeper and d’Artagnan’s answer emerged as a strangled yelp. “No!”

“An excellent answer.” The old oak bedframe creaked ominously as he rose and d’Artagnan tightened his neck muscles against the urge to turn and stare. He barely had time to identify the soft pop of a flask being uncorked before the mattress gave again and he was treated to another long, slow stroke from nape to buttock. 

The hand dispensing it was warm; oily, as he belatedly realised when animal instinct forced to grind against the slippery caress. Cool air – huffed from the Cardinal’s flared nostrils he decided, absurdly pleased by the hazy deduction – poured down toward his arsehole, heightening the area’s sensitivity for the satiny gush of liquid that followed. “Good?” Richelieu crooned with all the assurance of a man who already has his answer. His hips circling instinctively, d’Artagnan managed a jerk of the head.

More oil, then his cheeks were confidently parted, the chilly graze of metal and stone starting fires beneath the skin where they touched. D’Artagnan tensed up from the inside, acutely conscious of the ragged edge to his breathing and the prickle of sweat dribbling down his nose. Yet even with every sense painfully heightened he was taken aback by the first experimental jab of a greasy finger.

He jolted, muscles going into automatic spasm against the intrusion’s sting before a strange warmth infused his lower portions and his heavy head began to swim, all his awareness fixed at the point where neatly-trimmed nail grazed virgin flesh. A small keening sound bubbled from the back of his throat.

“Have you ever taken a maid, d’Artagnan?” Huskier than ever the Cardinal’s voice scratched his ear like sandpaper, a physical caress all of its own. “Did she flinch - cry out - when you entered her?”

“Y-yes.” Conversation. Only a man with ice in his veins would expect coherent speech from a puddle of molten flesh and bone d’Artagnan knew: none of which stopped him grinding down onto those questing digits and gasping with delight at the introduction of a third. The initial shock forgotten he buried his face in the bedding to muffle a moan, stars bursting in his head when a sudden shock of pure sensation erupted at the base of his spine. “Wha…?”

Again. Again. Pressure against the same small bundle of nerves shot pleasure to every extremity until d’Artagnan could take no more. He clawed helplessly at his own cock, the relief he craved stopped by a steely grip on his wrist. “ _When_ I say so,” Richelieu hissed, unexpectedly close to his ear while his other hand continued to work wonders on the Gascon’s arsehole. “And not a moment before, you agree?”

“Yes. Yes!” He would have promised Athos’s head on a platter and the Cardinal knew it, taking care to flex his slippery fingers as they withdrew and his victim babbled his incoherent plea for mercy, or more, or both. Careless, he dashed what remained of the oil across his swollen member before clambering up behind the trembling musketeer and bestowing a hard, painful nip to the crook of his neck.

The prickle of pain aroused d’Artagan all the more and he moaned wantonly, thrusting hard against his lover. Richelieu grunted, seizing his hips in an iron grip that would leave dark, hand-shaped marks in the morning. 

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Nothing but the pain that exploded the moment the Cardinal’s powerful cock breached the softened ring of his anal muscles, cleaving him in two with the splintering force of a meat axe. D’Artagnan tried to howl, the animal sound too broad for his constricted throat. He was burning. Breaking apart from inside.

Instinct made him struggle, the muscles of his thighs caught in a violent spasm of cramp. “Hold still!” the Cardinal growled, one hand shifting to palm the deflating length of his partner’s penis. It twitched gratefully and the Gascon expelled a long, slow breath. “Remember those virgins of yours?”

The faint mockery relaxed him as much as the sweet swirls from his cock and d’Artagnan managed a pained laugh. “Did I hurt them this much?” he muttered. Richelieu bestowed another subtle squeeze.

“How am I to know?” he parried, brushing his neat beard across the younger man’s back. “Better?”

“A bit.” It was an understatement. Now the tearing sensation had abated, taking screeching agony in its wake, d’Artaganan was aware of something subtler. Something that warmed all the way to his bowels and into his lower belly, tickling inside his testes. 

He felt full. Pleasantly stretched. The friction of a shy experimental shimmy sent a shower of sparks along his whole nervous system. 

He liked this.

He wanted more.

His mouth flapped, but the word trapped in his throat. He shifted again and sensation cut it loose. “More!”

“So uncouth.” Still, the smallest flex of a tight passage around him had its effect and the Cardinal began to rock, shifting his hands once again to hold his mount steady before increasing his pace. D’Artagnan’s own fingers made amends for the loss, a broken cry escaping puckered lips.

“Y’r Eminence!”

Richelieu’s groan rang around the spacious chamber. Utterly unhinged by the blasphemy they moved harder, faster, grinding together in a vortex of sensation that tore them away from the world of mortal, sinful men. Fingers clutched at his cock; whose, d’Artagnan no longer knew nor cared, caught between the pleasure of their grip and the unbearable friction deep inside his arse. He buried his face in the bedding, hot breath redoubling the sweat that slicked his brow. Time after time the Cardinal hit his target, shooting pulses of lightning straight up d’Artagnan’s backbone, and with the sizzle of each one inside his brain the Gascon shrieked louder, his body tightening its grip; increasing the shared pressure.

Richelieu’s guttural grunts; his own long, lascivious moans. The sounds tangled together as tightly as their shuddering forms, setting then lifting the tempo of their movements. Bright lights flared behind his closed eyelids. His balls, his stomach, tightened painfully. Teetering on the brink d’Artagnan knew a moment’s blinding clarity, a perfect awareness of the climax rushing toward him before the world caved in and he was swept away by total sensory overload.

He didn’t hear the Cardinal’s harsh climactic shout; felt the strong spurt of seed in his bowels as the gentlest plash of ocean on shore. Loose and liquid, he let himself be manipulated while the spinning sensation in his head slowed and the molten fire in his lower portions softened and spread as a mellow suffusing warmth. It seemed like an eternity before his eyes fluttered open, the sharp planes of a familiar face coming reluctantly into focus before them.

Richelieu arched an eyebrow, the faintest glimmer of a smile curling the corner of his mouth. D’Artagan pushed up onto his elbow, only to freeze at the instant stab of pain in the arse. “Consider it penance for your sins,” the Cardinal suggested wryly. Easing himself down, d’Artagnan repressed a laugh for fear of its physical effects.

“Who grants absolution to a Prince of the Church?” he wondered, close enough to feel the shimmer of amusement that passed through the older man. “A bishop might absolve a priest, but a cardinal...”

“God sees and knows them all,” Richelieu reminded him, the palpable sincerity behind his habitually mocking tone enough to startle d’Artagnan. “And I’d advise against riding tomorrow – or the next day. You’ll find walking normally painful enough, so if the gallant Treville suggested anything more strenuous…”

“Thanks for the warning, but how would you know?” He hardly needed telling: the minor exertion of shifting position made the likely consequences of normal physical exertion uncomfortably obvious. Still, the gentle teasing eased some of the tension d’Artagnan felt crackling in the air around them and gave an excuse for an exaggerated wince as he clambered inelegantly to his feet.

“I wasn’t born a bishop, you know,” Richelieu replied lightly, not bothering to follow his lead. “But perhaps young officers are expected to live like Franciscans even in Paris nowadays? The pain will ease. Just don’t exert yourself unduly for a while.”

“I appreciate the advice Cardinal, but I still say you’re a bastard.”

“I’m called worse in the streets on a daily basis, but it’s all for the good of France.” Implacable certainty overflowed from the words, and for a split second d’Artagnan was almost convinced. 

His gut churned, the acid bite of bile burning the back of his throat. He had to get away.

Succumbing to the Cardinal’s erotic power was one thing; falling for his suave megalomania was another entirely and in that moment, with the line between man and minister blurred, d’Artagnan knew he was in imminent danger of it. “I should get back,” he mumbled. Richelieu cocked his head.

“Don’t forget your hat,” he said carelessly, closing his eyes. “You can find your way out, I presume?”

The dismissal was meant to sting but as he stumbled from the room d’Artagnan was immune, numb to both a lover’s coldness and the dull aching sensation in his rectum. _What am I doing? What have I become?_

The questions danced through the shadows before him but as he tiptoed past a nodding sentry on the garrison’s unlocked gate (Treville would have the scoundrel dismissed from the regiment, he thought vaguely) the answers remained as elusive and aloof as the man behind the Cardinal’s mask. Better for his sanity, d’Artagnan concluded, catching a curse on the tip of his tongue as he bent to remove his muddy boots, that they stay that way!


	8. Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan has conscience issues. They're about to become the least of his troubles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m assuming (since it was never brought up in the series) that the boys remained oblivious to Adele’s fate; and that d’Artagnan, innocent soul that he is, has no idea whose mistress she was. Also, as this fic was started after episode 8 aired, it veers off from the televised events where Aramis and Anne are concerned.
> 
> Sorry it's taken so long - my muse has been hibernating!

They met at the Palace within hours: he loitering in the corridors as part of the King’s escort, the Cardinal striding from his suite, the heavy cloak whipping around his lean form and a plump, anonymous priest waddling in his wake. Silvery eyes ghosted across his face and under their power d’Artagnan felt the unthinkable happen. His neck began to bend.

Blood scorched his cheeks at the answering curl of a well-cut lip. No Musketeer would bow his head in homage to the detested Scarlet Eminence and yet he, the youngest of them all, could not control his reflexive movement. Irrational fury lodged in a solid lump behind his ribcage and he glowered, the pressure of his glare enough to make the Cardinal’s companion turn back with a quizzical expression across his weathered face.

At an increasing distance it wasn’t easy to apologise but d’Artagnan tried all the same and received – he thought - a tentative half-smile in response. It transformed the stranger’s face into something oddly familiar.

He plucked the sleeve of his neighbour. “Who’s that with the Cardinal?” he hissed. Porthos shrugged.

“One of his household priests I expect; the old heathen’s got to have a few of ‘em around for appearances,” he grated between his teeth. “But if it’s absolution you’re after, best follow Aramis to Vespers tonight. Knows all the right priests for an easy penance!”

“I doubt this puppy has sins the like of our friend’s to atone for, Porthos.” Athos, one eye on the King’s door, smiled kindly on d’Artagnan’s blushes. “Although there’ll not be a daughter in Paris safe should he follow Aramis’ example too closely!”

Before the last of the group could protest the doors swung open. Smothering his grin as best he could, d’Artagnan bowed stiffly from the waist, keeping his eyes on the marble floor until Their Majesties were past and he could slot into position beside Aramis at the rear of the procession.

The Queen glanced over her shoulder, the faint glimmer of a smile curving her full lips. Though it wasn’t directed at him d’Artagnan felt a shock of raw erotic recognition.

The catch in his neighbour’s breath echoed as loudly as a slamming door. “Athos is right about penance, then,” he muttered.

Aramis’s serene façade wavered. “It’s innocent,” he hissed. D’Artagnan rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, right!” 

For the first time in weeks his own improbable private life faded to the back of his mind. What, after all, was sodomy with a cardinal against an affair with the consort of France?

*

When Aramis moved toward the gates after supper d’Artagnan followed. “It’s my _sin_ , if that’s what you call loving her; there’s no need for your confession,” the older man growled, dodging around a be-whiskered merchant and his buxom, querulous wife. “And she’s pure as the day she entered France for all I’ve done, in case you think I’m a complete idiot!”

“You loved another man’s mistress until she went off to play the great lady in on his estate, so Porthos says.” If he even remembered the girl’s name now d’Artagnan would be surprised: and if Anne was not his lover, some other willing wench would be making room in her bed for the dashing Monsieur Aramis readily enough. “And you had an eye on Agnes too, if she’d not been so loyal to Philippe’s memory! D’ you think you’ll ever fall for an _attainable_ woman?”

“You’ve been listening to Athos too much.” A sideways step took them from the street and into the parish church, its pews deserted save for a clutch elderly women with bowed heads and a pair of young lovers presumably using religion as an excuse to avoid returning to their parents too soon. “I’m confessing nothing, but – perhaps my past’s still with me. I still take solace in prayer.”

“You’re not the only one.” Discreetly genuflecting d’Atagnan slipped into a shadowed pew trusting his friend to follow. Closing his eyes he shut down his mind and allowed his lips to move silently over words familiar since his childhood. 

For the first time all day he felt blessed calm envelop him. The chill of a near-empty building and the soft wheeze of his neighbour’s breathing seeped into his bones and the voice of the priest, low and rhythmic as it drifted from the altar, almost chanting the incomprehensible Latin of the office, had the soothing cadence of a lullaby. His head dropped and his limbs hung loose, blissful lethargy blotting out the guilt, panic and residual anal pain. Time slowed. 

If it stopped forever d’Artagnan wouldn’t have cared but at length the service ended and the few faithful rose in a rustle of cloth and the dry creak of reluctant bone. He pulled himself from his knees, content to follow his friend in dumb silence toward the door.

“God keep you, Father,” Aramis murmured. 

“And you, my son.” D’Artagnan looked up, ready to echo the words until he met the same gentle, faintly bemused smile that had confronted him earlier. 

His jaw dropped. He stopped. Stared. The priest’s head cocked. “Are you quite well, young man?”

“I, er, yes, sorry, I mean – that is, God be with you, Father.”

He had never been more thankful for a rough hand wrenching him over a threshold and out into the teeth of a howling storm. “I saw a priest on the step. Did you see the Devil himself?” Aramis scolded, hunching into his cloak against the sheeting rain. “Father Pierre’s going to be thinking we’ve taken a madman – or worse, a heretic - into the regiment!”

“ _That’s_ your confessor?” The sheets of cold water lashing against his face were warm to that sloshing through d’Artagnan’s belly. Aramis grinned.

“There’s no kinder in all of Paris,” he teased, jovially tugging the brim of his companion’s hat so low d’Artagnan missed his footing on the slippery cobbles and only a friendly hand saved what little dignity he had left. “He’s a tolerant soul, never chastises a man too harshly for his weaknesses. Problem?”

“Didn’t you notice him at the palace before dinner? With the Cardinal?”

“Occupational hazard I dare say.” Secure as a child in the secrecy of the confessional Aramis strode out confidently, oblivious to the rain. “Maybe he takes the old fox’s confession too; it wouldn’t hurt Richelieu to face a true son of the Church now and then! Hi, Porthos! Where’s the fire?”

“’s Athos.” Wheezing from his exertions, shirt plastered against his broad chest so tight d’Artagnan could make out the snail’s trail of scarring by moonlight, Porthos grabbed each man by the shoulder, propelling them bodily where he wanted them to go. “He’s gone mad!”

“It was always likely to happen.” The merriment died in Aramis’s eyes before the jest was fully spoken. “He’s been drinking?”

“All evening. We saw _her_ \- that woman, Madame de la Chapelle or whatever she’s called, flauntin’ herself in a fine carriage and now…”

He gulped a deep breath, wheeling them around to face him. “He said he’s gonna kill her. _Do it properly this time_ , whatever that means. Then he ran off. Never thought anyone that drunk could run so bleedin’ fast!”

“Where?” 

“Into town. Marketplace.”

“The gallows,” d’Artagnan breathed, barely aware the words were his own.

In the face of danger all hilarity fled. The two old hands regarded each other for a charged moment before bolting faster than wild horses. “Get help!” Aramis hollered over his shoulder. “In his cups… you shouldn’t have let him go, Porthos!”

The bigger man’s indignant reply was whipped away on the wind but d’Artagnan didn’t need to hear. Athos and alcohol never mixed and that woman, whichever alias she preferred… well, whatever connection there was between them had the same acid content as aged, spoiled wine. 

But he wouldn’t kill her. “Would he?”

The frightened question spurred him into motion, the rapid, repetitive clatter of his boots ringing almost metallic off the cobbles as he tore through the city streets, dodging the hawkers, the drunks and the cutpurses on the way. Blinded by rain and sweat he finally collapsed on his knees at the foot of a towering wooden gate, shuddering for breath while from the gloom of his carriage the most powerful man in France squinted irritably. “Wait!”

The coachman, whip already raised to flick down upon the intruder’s bowed head, stayed his hand. The sentries manning the gates froze into painted statues. Only the Cardinal himself, impassive and remote in the splendour of his scarlet robes, seemed capable of independent motion. “Well, Musketeer?” he drawled, oblivious to the glutinous mud that squelched up his boots the instant they hit the ground. 

“Athos – abducted - Milady.” Between great raw gasps he forced out the words and despite the ears straining all around it seemed only one man fully grasped his meaning. Richelieu’s stern features tightened. 

“Where?” he snarled.

“Marketplace.”

The implication was obvious. “Captain Lemaitre, gather your men. Ensure that woman is not harmed or you’ll answer to God - and to me! Oh – and _try_ not to damage the Musketeers’ reputation in the process; His Majesty would be _most_ upset.”

The cynical twist of phrase and tone brought d’Artganan to his senses faster than one of Constance’s slaps, his head jerking back hard to stare straight up into the older man’s keen grey eyes. As if he read the soldier’s panic Richelieu laid a fatherly hand on his crown. “Assure your captain my men will act reasonably, d’Artagnan,” he said, and in spite of everything a chill ran down the Gascon’s spine at the unexpected use of his name. “You’ll find the back streets a quicker route to your barracks, but keep a hand on your dagger. The scum from the Court of Miracles had to settle somewhere, I suppose…”

The Captain. The help his friends assumed he’d fetch while he ran instead to his lover. To the enemy. _Dear God, what have I done?_

With wings on his heels and a horde of murderous thieves at his back he couldn’t have made the dash from Episcopal Palace to base any faster, gasping out the full horror at the gate. A mount was brought at a canter for him as the yard erupted in a flurry of noisy, blasphemous activity and obediently it trailed its fellows through streets that emptied at the clatter of their approach while d’Artagnan slumped numb in the saddle, powerless to influence its course.

He was dimly aware the uncomfortable sensation, although physical, was not new. Control over his situation had slipped from his hand like sodden reins the day Armand Jean du Plessis had first blazed through the Cardinal de Richelieu’s cold façade in his presence. 

“Athos, please! If you’ve a crime to charge against her, let the proper authorities investigate!”

Aramis’ coaxing voice shook him from his torpor and he yanked hard on the reins, sliding to the ground before the horse could react or his own knees bend to cushion the impact. “Authorities!” he heard Athos shout, just the faintest hint of a slip at the edge of his voice betraying his inebriation. “She’s the Cardinal’s creature, what’s justice to them?"

Red leather capes twitched around the gallows’ foot. Kneeling on the steps, like a supplicant before the throne, Porthos made a performance of ignoring them.

“What the hell are _they_ doing here?” Treville hissed, dangerously close to d’Artagnan as they edged forward. Aramis waved a hand, subtly guiding them to the periphery of Athos’s vision. 

“His spies are everywhere,” he muttered.

“This witch is the worst of them!” Athos’ pistol, jammed hard beneath his captive’s breast, jerked ominously. D’Artagnan flinched. His gaze snagged on hers.

“D’Artagnan, help me!”

The weapon froze. D’Artagnan could almost feel the bite of the muzzle against his own breastbone. “You too?” Athos hissed, and for a moment there was no one else in the square. “Whore!”

“Athos, NO!”

Two rapid shots rang out. As d’Artagnan opened his mouth to echo Treville’s yell the tart, acrid aftertaste of burnt powder spiked his tongue. Smoke, languid despite the storm, drifted in feathery sworls across the scaffold. The dying echo of a scream dissolved against the silence like breath against frosty glass.

He couldn’t feel his legs. D’Artagnan glanced down, vaguely surprised to find them still attached and unbloodied. “What…” he began.

“ATHOS!”

Glassy blue eyes swivelled in the direction of Aramis’ awful scream. His prisoner lurched from Athos’ slackened grip, an oozing ribbon of red flashing bright among the folds of her grimy gown. At the same moment Milady stumbled off the scaffold into the grasp of a burly Red Guard Olivier d’Athos de la Fere crumpled into the outstretched arms of his two oldest comrades, and only then did d’Artagnan’s panic-fogged brain receive a lightning bolt of sickly clarity.

“No,” he whimpered, shaking too badly even to drag himself up the few rough wooden steps to their side. “Dear God NO!”

Blue eyes slowly fading from their familiar starry brilliance flicked, caressing familiar faces one last time. “She wins,” the Comte de la Fere breathed, and even the Cardinal’s men stopped their forward motions, visibly straining for the dying man’s last word. The merest wisp of a smile touched lips garish with the scarlet stain of fresh-spilled blood. “She always – wins.”

“Hush now.” Porthos, gentle despite the tremor that gripped his meaty paws, closed his comrade’s eyes for the final time before raising tear-filled ones to his stricken commander. 

“Gone?” Treville could only mouth the word. Porthos nodded. 

And a terrible, desolate wail resounded around the rainswept square.


	9. Epilogue: The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Regiment is in mourning. D'Artagnan can't do it - not properly. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably the shortest chapter I've ever written, bringing the whole fic full circle. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

They stood guard over his coffin, the carved fleur-de-lis appearing to sway in the flickering light of a dozen candles, the numbness that had descended as they bore him home solidified into a glacier of cold, hard grief. D’Artagnan ached to cry; to scream and rage against the cruelty of Fate and hold his friends as they did the same. Yet he could not.

Even when Aramis broke, sinking to his knees in the filth of the yard, he couldn’t cry. Even as Porthos crushed the breath from his lungs, mumbling broken words of what were probably meant for consolation, the solid block behind his ribs refused to loosen. And when Treville, red-eyed and dishevelled, fresh from informing the King, seized his hands and carried them up to press against his own thumping heart, d’Artagnan found he could still do nothing but stare. 

They knew grief, untrammelled by guilt. 

He envied them.

And he could never, ever confess


End file.
